


Day of the dead

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Kids being dumb, Sickfic, Spiderman in action, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Since he was sick on Halloween, Peter takes Nov 01 as his day to catch up on all the candy he missed.  Little does he know Mr. Stark has a job for him, and he ends up right back where he started.Takes place right after my last SPDMN fic (No Sympathy), but this does stand alone.





	Day of the dead

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051.

Peter wakes and immediately looks at the clock. It’s 6:59. His alarm will be blaring in a minute. He blearily reaches out to turn of the device before it can start beeping at him. May’s given him permission to miss school if he still feels as sick as he did yesterday, but as Peter lifts his head, there’s no echoing throb. It’s a relief.

 

He slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, stepping a little harder than he normally would just to test his luck. The resultant vibrations die out around his shins and leave his head alone, and the taste of toothpaste doesn’t turn his stomach, so Peter decides he’s ok.

 

He kicks it into high gear and goes back to his bedroom to dress and pack up his backpack. Peter grabs his suit from the back of his desk chair where he’d thrown it last night, shakes it, and gives it an experimental sniff. It’s a little sweaty, but the god-awful scent of homeless man’s pot smoke has dissipated. He wads up the spandex fabric and tucks it into the bottom of his backpack.

 

Peter barrels through the kitchen, almost knocking Aunt May’s orange juice to the floor as he throws pop tarts into the toaster and looks for something to toss in his bag for lunch.

 

“Feeling better this morning?” May asks, looking up from the newspaper.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, still scanning the pantry. “I don’t know what hit me, but I’m fine now.” He spies a half-finished bag of candy corn and a handful of fun-size Milky Ways, and Peter sweeps them into his backpack.

 

“Maybe just had to clear your system,” May suggests. Then, “Are you taking all my candy?”

 

“Um.” Peter hastens to put a few of the chocolates back.

 

“No, go ahead,” May says, smiling to show she was joking the first time. “You didn’t really get to celebrate last night.”

 

“But, I mean, I could leave some.”

 

“Take it. Or I _will_ eat it all, and I can’t afford new jeans,” May jokes. “I’d give a lot to have that teenaged boy metabolism.”

 

“Hm,” Peter muses, feeling a little guilty that his growing hunger lately has forced an increase in the grocery budget. He forgoes dropping cheese crackers into his backpack as well.

 

The toaster spits out the pop tarts, and Peter takes one in each hand, clamped between his thumbs and index fingers so the steaming pastries won’t burn him. “See ya, May,” Peter calls, transferring one pop tart to his mouth as he lets himself out the front door.

 

“See ya,” May echoes.

 

Peter wolfs down his breakfast as he dashes to school. He hadn’t realized the hunger gnawing at the corners of his stomach, but now that he thinks about it, he didn’t have much of a dinner last night, and most of it ended up splatted on a street corner and in the toilet. It makes the pop tarts taste extra good, like the food of the gods. Which, who knows? Maybe they are.

 

His morning classes pass quickly, and Peter does his best to focus on algebra and chemistry and history even though his mind is on other things. He didn’t do that great of a job of patrolling the neighborhood last night, and he forgot to call Mr. Stark and leave a message. A mission report. If Mr. Stark asks about it, he’ll just tell the truth and say he was sick, which is perfectly valid reason for an excused absence. But it still doesn’t seem like a great track record for a superhero.

 

During lunch, Peter hides out in the band room with Ned to work on the Lego death- star-in-progress. Ned has a treasure trove of Halloween booty to share, somehow including the diamonds of watermelon sour patch kids and multiple full-size chocolate bars. Peter adds his candy corn and milky ways to the pile and chows down, ruefully wishing he’d made buttered toast for breakfast. Or at least something a little less sugary. It only takes a few pieces of candy to sear his tongue with sweetness and make his teeth feel grimy. But Peter’s hungry, and with his current rate of calorie burn, it’ll only take a few rounds of the block in his Spiderman suit to burn it all off.

 

The bell is ringing to signal the end of the lunch period, and Peter’s phone is vibrating up a storm in his pocket. Pretending he’s on his way to class, he ducks into the bathroom to check the messages.

 

_Mr. Stark: There’s a thing. Can you assist?_

_Mr. Stark: Oh, you’re at school. Nevermind._

_Mr. Stark: But really, can you assist?_

_Mr. Stark: Happy’s on a Starbucks run. Please provide own transportation._

 

Peter hastens to compose a reply.

_Peter: Yeah! Of course! I don’t have any tests today._

 

He considers deleting the exclamation points. Decides against it. Oh well.

 

_Peter: To the tower, right? What do you need help with?_

_Mr. Stark: Yes. Excuse the boxes. We’re packing for the move._

_Mr. Stark: How’s your knowledge of local gang hangouts?_

_Peter: Not fantastic?_

_Mr. Stark: Hm. Ok. Scans are showing up weird weapons tech. Figured if it’s HYDRA, I’ll handle it. But if it’s just bullies, you can give it a try first. I also need you to model._

_Peter: Always happy to slam some bullies. Model what?_

_Mr. Stark: Your suit. Duh. I’m working on a new micro armor layer, and I need you to put it on and tell me if it hurts when I hit you._

_Peter: Ok…_

_Mr. Stark: Don’t just stand there like a dumb kid on your phone. Get your ass down here._

_Mr. Stark: I’m not swearing at you._

Peter wonders if he’s supposed to reply, but he just throws his phone into his backpack and exits the bathroom. He glances up and down the hall a few times to make sure there aren’t any teachers watching, then he dashes for the door.

 

Peter dumps his backpack in the alley and quickly pulls on his Spiderman suit. Since he doesn’t have any cash for a cab and his metro card’s down to a few cents, webbing himself across the city seems like the best option. He supposes he could park somewhere and wait for Happy to finish up whatever he’s doing, but what fun is that? Peter usually gets a kick out of swinging around. Plus, he doesn’t get the impression Happy likes him that much.

 

Once he’s situated, Peter scales the brick wall and sprints across the building’s flat roof. He shoots a web onto the corner of the building diagonally across the street and jumps, letting his feet skim the roofs of a few taxis on his way over the intersection.

 

With this quick method of transport, it’ll still take Peter a good ten or fifteen minutes to get to the tower. He’s less than halfway through the journey when his stomach starts sloshing. Honestly, it’s not that unexpected what with all the junk he just ate and fact that he was sick yesterday. But it’s annoying as anything.

 

Eight blocks from the tower, Peter’s head starts is aching. Not in the nice, polite, excuse-me-I-think-I’m-starting-to-get-a-headache way, but more in the please-stop-I’m-hella-dizzy way. The way that demands a change in activity or dire consequences.

 

Peter jumps onto a rooftop and sidesteps a skylight, doubling over with his hands on his knees so he can catch his breath. He’s fine. He tells himself he is five or six times and swallows a sweet, chocolaty burp, then leaps back into free fall before he can second guess himself. Once he shoots a web and starts to swing, though, the disgusting flip of his stomach starts up again in the worst combination of overindulgence and motion sickness _ever_. Peter’s fucked and he knows it. He imagines he feels worse than Steve Rogers did in that infamous story of Cap and the cotton candy and the Cyclone on Coney Island.

 

He’s swallowing hard against rising gunk in his throat when he swings onto the block dominated by the Avengers Tower and, as it has been for the past few weeks, about a thousand U-Haul trucks. Peter doesn’t want to let his feet hit the ground for fear that his body will take it as a cue to turn itself inside out, so he webs himself to the balcony on the 21st floor, the one where he knows Tony’s lab is located. The sliding glass door is open slightly, and Peter shoves through it. He pulls his mask up over his nose and mouth, intent only on getting to the bathroom before the inevitable happens.

 

“Hey, where are you going?”

 

For once in his life, Peter ignores Mr. Stark’s question and keeps hustling, though his pace is slowing significantly as the motion sends his stomach into frantic convulsions. He’s sweating all over. He can’t feel his face. He can’t feel his feet.

 

“Yo, kid.” A hand comes down on his shoulder and forcibly spins him around. “I’m talking to you, you know?”

 

“Ohshit—” Peter manages to choke out before everything’s coming up, running through the fingers of the gloved hand he’s pressed to his mouth a moment too late. He can’t suppress the next spastic retch, and a heavy splash of minimally digested candy and pop tarts hits the floor, soiling his red boots and Mr. Stark’s black Converse.

 

“What the fuck?” Tony leaps backward, then seems to think better of his actions and comes up behind Peter to place a tentative hand on his shoulder and keep him from collapsing on his shaky knees as his stomach continues to evacuate.

 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter chokes out as soon as he can take a breath. “I didn’t mean—” He cuts off with another gag. “Sorry.”

 

“Um. It’s ok,” Tony says, sounding like he’s out of his depth, fishing for the right words. “I’ll…call May to pick you up?”

 

“No, I…I can’t,” Peter breathes, scraping mucous and melted chocolate off his tongue with his teeth. It seems rude to spit onto the floor, but there aren’t a lot of better options.

 

“Yeah, right, you’re supposed to be at school…” Tony reminds himself. “Well, I have 23 guest rooms in this place, so I guess it won’t be any trouble if you want to lie down for a minute.”

 

Peter tries to say thank you, but the words turn into a wet burp he struggles to keep from turning into a heave. “OhmygodI’msorry,” he exhales.

 

“You’re…gross,” Tony says. “But, come on.” He uses the hand on Peter’s shoulder to steer him down the hall. “Good thing I haven’t packed the puke-cleaning robots yet.”


End file.
